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POEMS 


BY 


BRET    HARTE 


BOSTON: 
JAMES   R.   OSGOOD   AND   COMPANY, 

LATE  TICKNOR  &  FIELDS,  AND  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co. 


Entered  accord;rg  to  Act  ot'Cin^resr,  in  th^  year  1870, 

BY   FIELDS,    bSoO'OD,    &   CO., 
in  the  Qnjce  lof.'tbe  Librarian ldf;  Congress,  at  V/aohington. 

' 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS:  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 

CAMBRIDGE. 


n. 

CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  FROM  THE  SEA                7 

THE  ANGELUS n 

THE  MOUNTAIN  HEART'S-EASE 14 

GRIZZLY 17 

MADRONO 20 

COYOTE 22 

To  A  SEA-BIRD 24 

HER  LETTER 26 

DICKENS  IN  CAMP       .       .        .        .       .       .       .       .       .32 

WHAT  THE  ENGINES  SAID 36 

"THE  RETURN  OF  BELISARIUS" 40 

"TWENTY  YEARS" «...  43 

FATE 46 

IN  DIALECT. 

"JiM" 49 

CHIQUITA 53 

Dow's  FLAT 58 

IN  THE  TUNNEL 64 

"CICELY" . 68 

PENELOPE 76 

x    PLAIN  LANGUAGE  FROM  TRUTHFUL  JAMES        .        •        .  79 

THE  SOCIETY  UPON  THE  STANISLAUS     ....  84 

M1035G9 


V  CONTENTS. 

POEMS  FROM  1860  TO  1868. 

JOHN  BURNS  OF  GETTYSBURG 91 

\  THE  TALE  OF  A  PONY 98 

v  THE  MIRACLE  OF  PADRE  JUNIPERO    ...        .       .        .  105 

AN  ARCTIC  VISION HI 

To  THE  PLIOCENE  SKULL    . 117 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  EMEU 121 

•*  THE  AGED  STRANGER 125 

"  How  ARE  YOU,  SANITARY  ? " 1 28 

THE  REVEILLE      .        .        .        .        .        .       .       .       .131 

OUR  PRIVILEGE 134 

RELIEVING  GUARD        .       .       .       .       .       •       .       .136 

PARODIES. 

A  GEOLOGICAL  MADRIGAL   .......  139 

THE  WILLOWS  . ,       142 

NORTH  BEACH 148 

THE  LOST  TAILS  OF  MILETUS 150 


SAN   FRANCISCO. 


FROM   THE    SEA. 


QERENE,  indifferent  of  Fate, 

Thou  sittest  at  the  Western  Gate  ; 


Upon  thy  heights  so  lately  won 
Still  slant  the  banners  of  the  sun  ;    . 

Thou  seest  the  white  seas  strike  their  tents, 
O  Warder  of  two  Continents ! 

And  scornful  of  the  peace  that  flies 
Thy  angry  winds  and  sullen  skies, 


SAN  aFRANCISCO. 


,pr    r  fTh(?u;  drawest  all  .thjngs,  small  or  great, 
r  To'ttiee,  beside  the  Western  Gate. 


0  lion's  whelp,  that  hidest  fast 

In  jungle  growth  of  spire  and  mast, 

1  know  thy  cunning  and  thy  greed, 
Thy  hard  high  lust  and  wilful  deed, 

And  all  thy  glory  loves  to  tell 
Of  specious  gifts  material. 

Drop  down,  O  fleecy  Fog,  and  hide 
Her  scepitic  sneer,  and  all  her  pride! 

Wrap  her,  O  Fog,  in  gown  and  hood 
Of  her  Franciscan  Brotherhood. 


SAN    FRANCISCO.  9 

Hide  me  her  faults,  her  sin  and  blame  ; 
With  thy  gray  mantle  cloak  her  shame ! 

So  shall  she,  cowled,  sit  and  pray 
Till  morning  bears  her  sins  away. 

Then  rise,  O  fleecy  Fog,  and  raise 
The  glory  of  her  coming  days  ; 

Be  as  the  cloud  that  flecks  the  seas 
Above  her  smoky  argosies. 

When  forms  familiar  shall  give  place 
To  stranger  speech  and  newer  face; 

When  all  her  throes  and  anxious  fears 
Lie  hushed  in  the  repose  of  years ; 
i* 


10  SAN    FRANCISCO. 

When  Art  shall  raise  and  Culture  lift 
The  sensual  joys  and  meaner  thrift, 

And  all  fulfilled  the  vision,  we 

Who  watch  and  wait  shall  never  see,  • 

Who,  in  the  morning  of  her  race, 
Toiled  fair  or  meanly  in  our  place, — 

But,  yielding  to  the  common  lot, 
Lie  unrecorded  and  forgot. 


THE    ANGELUS, 

HEARD   AT   THE    MISSION   DOLORES,    1 868. 

T)ELLS  of  the  Past,  whose  long-forgotten  music 

Still  fills  the  wide  expanse, 
Tingeing  the  sober  twilight  of  the  Present 

With  color  of  romance : 

I  hear  your  call,  and  see  the  sun  descending 

On  rock  and  wave  and  sand, 
As  down  the  coast  the  Mission  voices  blending 

Girdle  the  heathen  land. 

Within  the  circle  of  your  incantation 
No  blight  nor  mildew  falls ; 


12  THE    ANGELUS. 

Nor  fierce  unrest,  nor  lust,  nor  low  ambition 
Passes  those  airy  walls. 

Borne  on  the  swell  of  your  long  waves  receding, 

I  touch  the  farther  Past, — 
I  see  the  dying  glow  of  Spanish  glory, 

The  sunset  dream  and  last ! 

Before  me  rise  the  dome-shaped  Mission  towers, 

The  white  Presidio ; 
The  swart  commander  in  his  leathern  jerkin, 

The  priest  in  stole  of  snow. 

Once  more  I  see  Portala's  cross  uplifting 

Above  the  setting  sun ; 
And  past  the  headland,  northward,  slowly  drifting 

The  freighted  galleon. 


THE    ANGELUS.  13 

O  solemn  bells !  whose  consecrated  masses 

Recall  the  faith  of  old,  - 
O  tinkling  bells !  that  lulled  with  twilight  music 

The  spiritual  fold! 

Your  voices  break  and  falter  in  the  darkness, — 

Break,  falter,  and  are  still ; 
And  veiled  and  mystic,  like  the  Host  descending, 

The  sun  sinks  from  the  hill ! 


THE  MOUNTAIN   HEARTS-EASE. 

T)Y  scattered  rocks  and  turbid  waters  shifting, 

By  furrowed  glade  and  dell, 
To  feverish  men  thy  calm,  sweet  face  uplifting, 

Thou  stayest  them  to  tell 

The  delicate  thought,  that  cannot  find  expression, 

For  ruder  speech  too  fair, 
That,  like  thy  petals,  trembles  in  possession, 

And  scatters  on  the  air. 

The  miner  pauses  in  his  rugged  labor, 
And,  leaning  on  his  spade, 


THE    MOUNTAIN    HEART'S-EASE.  15 

Laughingly  calls  unto  his  comrade-neighbor 
To  see  thy  charms  displayed ; 

But  in  his  eyes  a  mist  unwonted  rises, . 

And  for  a  moment  clear, 
Some  sweet  home  face  his  foolish  thought  surprises 

And  passes  in  a  tear,  — 

Some  boyish  vision  of  his  Eastern  village, 

Of  uneventful  toil, 
Where  golden  harvests  followed  quiet  tillage 

Above  a  peaceful  soil: 

One  moment  only,  for  the  pick,  uplifting, 
Through  root  and  fibre  cleaves, 

And  on  the  muddy  current  slowly  drifting 
Are  swept  thy  bruised  leaves. 


l6  THE    MOUNTAIN    HEART'S-EASE. 

And  yet,  O  poet,  in  thy  homely  fashion, 
Thy  work  thou  dost  fulfil, 

For  on  the  turbid  current  of  his  passion 
Thy  face  is  shining  still ! 


GRIZZLY. 


,  —  of  heroic  size, 
In  whose  lazy  muscles  lies 
Strength  we  fear  and  yet  despise  ; 
Savage,  —  whose  relentless  tusks 
Are  content  with  acorn  husks  ; 
Robber,  —  whose  exploits  ne'er  soared 
O'er  the  bee's  or  squirrel's  hoard  ; 
Whiskered  chin,  and  feeble  nose, 
Claws  of  steel  on  baby  toes,  — 
Here,  in  solitude  and  shade, 


1 8  GRIZZLY. 

Shambling,  shuffling,  plantigrade, 
Be  thy  courses  undismayed ! 

Here,  where  Nature  makes  thy  bed, 
Let  thy  rude,  half-human  tread 

Point  to  hidden  Indian  springs, 
Lost  in  ferns  and  fragrant  grasses, 

Hovered  o'er  by  timid  wings, 
Where  the  wood-duck  lightly  passes, 
Where  the  wild  bee  holds  her  sweets,  — - 
Epicurean  retreats, 
Fit  for  thee,  and  better  than 
Fearful  spoils  of  dangerous  man. 

In  thy  fat-jowled  deviltry 
Friar  Tuck  shall  live  in  thee ; 
Thou  mayst  levy  tithe  and  dole ; 

Thou  shalt  spread  the  woodland  cheer, 


GRIZZLY.  IQ 

From  the  pilgrim  taking  toll ; 

Match  thy  cunning  with  his  fear; 
Eat,  and  drink,  and  have  thy  fill ; 
Yet  remain  an  outlaw  still  1 


MADRONO. 

CAPTAIN  of  the  Western  wood, 
Thou  that  apest  Robin  Hood'! 
Green  above  thy  scarlet  hose, 
How  thy  velvet  mantle  shows ; 
Never  tree  like  thee  arrayed, 
O  thou  gallant  of  the  glade ! 

When  the  fervid  August  sun 
Scorches  all  it  looks  upon, 
And  the  balsam  of  the  pine 
Drips  from  stem  to  needle  fine, 
Round  thy  compact  shade  arranged, 
Not  a  leaf  of  thee  is  changed  ! 


MADRONO.  21 

When  the  yellow  autumn  sun 
Saddens  all  it  looks  upon, 
Spreads  its  sackcloth  on  the  hills, 
Strews  its  ashes  in  the  rills, 
Thou  thy  scarlet  hose  dost  doff, 
And  in  limbs  of  purest  buff 
Challengest  the  sombre  glade 
For  a  sylvan  masquerade. 

Where,  O  where,  shall  he  begin 
Who  would  paint  thee,  Harlequin  ? 
With  thy  waxen  burnished  leaf, 
With  thy  branches'  red  relief, 
With  thy  poly-tinted  fruit, 
In  thy  spring  or  autumn  suit,  — • 
Where  begin,  and  O,  where  end,  — 
Thou  whose  charms  all  art  transcend  ? 


COYOTE. 

"D  LOWN  out  of  the  prairie  in  twilight  and  dew, 
Half  bold  and  half  timid,  yet  lazy  all  through  ; 
Loath  ever  to  leave,  and  yet  fearful  to  stay, 
He  limps  in  the  clearing,  —  an  outcast  in  gray. 

A  shade  on  the  stubble,  a  ghost  by  the  wall, 
Now  leaping,  now  limping,  now  risking  a  fall, 
Lop-eared  and  large-jointed,  but  ever  alway 
A  thoroughly  vagabond  outcast  in  gray. 

Here,  Carlo,  old  fellow,  —  he 's  one  of  your  kind,  — 
Go,  seek  him,  and  bring  him  in  out  of  the  wind. 


COYOTE.  23 

What !  snarling,  my  Carlo  !     So  —  even  dogs  may 
Deny  their  own  kin  in  the  outcast  in  gray. 

Well,  take  what  you  will,  —  though  it  be  on  the  sly, 
Marauding,  or  begging,  —  I  shall  not  ask  why ; 
But  will  call  it  a  dole,  just  to  help  on  his  way 
A  four-footed  friar  in  orders  of  gray ! 


TO  A  SEA-BIRD. 

SANTA  CRUZ,  1869. 

O  AUNTERING  hither  on  listless  wings, 

Careless  vagabond  of  the  sea. 
Little  thou  heedest  the  surf  that  sings, 
The  bar  that  thunders,  the  shale  that  rings,  - 
Give  me  to  keep  thy  company. 

Little  thou  hast,  old  friend,  that 's  new, 

Storms  and  wrecks  are  old  things  to  thee  ; 

Sick  am  I  of  these  changes,  too  ; 

Little  to  care  for,  little  to  rue,  — 
I  on  the  shore,  and  thou  on  the  sea. 


TO   A    SEA-BIRD.  25 

All  of  thy  wanderings,  far  and  near, 

Bring  thee  at  last  to  shore  and  me  ; 
All  of  my  journeyings  end  them  here, 
This  our  tether  must  be  our  cheer, — 
I  on  the  shore,  and  thou  on  the  sea. 

Lazily  rocking  on  ocean's  breast, 

Something  in  common,  old  friend,  have  we ; 
Thou  on  the  shingle  seek'st  thy  nest, 
I  to  the  waters  look  for  rest,  — 

I  on  the  shors  and  thou  on  the  sea. 


HER  LETTER. 

T  'M  sitting  alone  by  the  fire, 

Dressed  just  as  I  came  from  the  dance, 
In  a  robe  even  you  would  admire,  — 

It  cost  a  cool  thousand  in  France ; 
I  'm  be-diamonded  out  of  all  reason, 

My  hair  is  done  up  in  a  cue : 
In  short,  sir,  "  the  belle  of  the  season " 

Is  wasting  an  hour  on  you. 

A  dozen  engagements  I  Ve  broken  ; 
I  left  in  the  midst  of  a  set ; 


HER   LETTER.  2? 

Likewise  a  proposal,  half  spoken, 

That  waits  —  on  the  stairs  —  for  me  yet. 

They  say  he  '11  be  rich,  —  when  he  grows  up,  — 
And  then  he  adores  me  indeed. 

And  you,  sir,  are  turning  your  nose  up, 
Three  thousand  miles  off,  as  you  read. 

"  And  how  do  I  like  my  position  ? " 

"  And  what  do  I  think  of  New  York  ? " 
"And  now,  in  my  higher  ambition, 

With  whom  do  I  waltz,  flirt,  or  talk?" 
"And  is  n't  it  nice  to  have  riches, 

And  diamonds  and  silks,  and  all  that  ? " 
"  And  are  n't  it  a  change  to  the  ditches 

And  tunnels  of  Poverty  Flat  ?  " 

Well,  yes,  —  if  you  saw  us  out  driving 
Each  day  in  the  park,  four-in-hand, — 


2$  HER   LETTER. 

If  you  saw  poor  dear  mamma  contriving 

To  look  supernaturally  grand,  — 
If  you  saw  papa's  picture,  as  taken 

By  Brady,  and  tinted  at  that, — 
You  'd  never  suspect  he  sold  bacon 

And  flour  at  Poverty  Flat. 

And  yet,  just  this  moment,  when  sitting 

In  the  glare  of  the  grand  chandelier,  — 
In  the  bustle  and  glitter  befitting 

The  "  finest  soiree  of  the  year,"  — 
In  the  mists  of  a  gaze  de  Ckambery, 

And  the  hum  of  the  smallest  of  talk,  — 
Somehow,  Joe,  I  thought  of  the  "Ferry," 

And  the  dance  that  we  had  on  "  The  Fork  "  ; 

Of  Harrison's  barn,  with  its  muster 
Of  flags  festooned  over  the  wall ; 


I1KR    LETTKK.  29 

Of  the  candles  that  shed  their  soft  lustre 
And  tallow  on  head-dress  and  shawl  ; 

Of  the  steps  that  we  took  to  one  fiddle  ; 
Of  the  dress  of  my  queer  vis-a-vis  ; 

And  how  I  once  went  down  the  middle 
With  the  man  that  shot  Sandy  McGee  ; 

Of  the  moon  that  was  quietly  sleeping 

On  the  hill,  when  the  time  came  to  go  ; 
Of  the  few  baby  peaks  that  were  peeping 

From  under  their  bedclothes  of  snow  ; 
Of  that  ride,  —  that  to  me  was  the  rarest ; 

Of — the  something  you  said  at  the  gate 
Ah,  Joe,  then  I  was  n't  an  heiress 

To  "  the  best-paying  lead  in  the  State." 

Well,  well,  it 's  all  past ;  yet  it 's  funny 
To  think,  as  I  stood  in  the  glare 


3O  HER    LETTER. 

Of  fashion  and  beauty  and  money, 

That  I  should  be  thinking,  right  there, 

Of  some  one  who  breasted  high  water, 
And  swam  the  North  Fork,  and  all  that, 

Just  to  dance  with  old  Folinsbee's  daughter, 
The  Lily  of  Poverty  Flat. 

But  goodness  !  what  nonsense  I  'm  writing ! 

(Mamma  says  my  taste  still  is  low,) 
Instead  of  my  triumphs  reciting, 

I  'm  spooning  on  Joseph,  —  heigh-ho  ! 
And  I'm  to  be  "finished"  by  travel, — 

Whatever  's  the  meaning  of  that,  — 
O,  why  did  papa  strike  pay  gravel 

In  drifting  on  Poverty  Flat  ? 

Good  night,  —  here  's  the  end  of  my  paper  ; 
Good  night,  —  if  the  longitude  please,  — 


HER   LETTER.  31 

For  maybe,  while  wasting  my  taper, 
Your  sun  's  climbing  over  the  trees. 

But  know,  if  you  have  n't  got  riches, 
And  are  poor,  dearest  Joe,  and  all  that, 

That  my  heart 's  somewhere  there  in  the  ditches, 
And  you  've  struck  it,  —  on  Poverty  Flat. 


DICKENS   IN  CAMP. 

A  BOVE  the  pines  the  moon  was  slowly  drifting, 

The  river  sang  below ; 
The  dim  Sierras,  far  beyond,  uplifting 
Their  minarets  of  snow. 


The  roaring  camp-fire,  with  rude  humor,  painted 

The  ruddy  tints  of  health 
On  haggard  face  and  form  that  drooped  and  fainted 

In  the  fierce  race  for  wealth  ; 

Till  one  arose,  and  from  his  pack's  scant  treasure 
A  hoarded  volume  drew, 


DICKENS    IN    CAMP.  3j 

And    cards   were    dropped   from    hands    of  listless 

leisure 
To  hear  the  tale  anew ; 

And    then,    while    round    them    shadows   gathered 
faster, 

And  as  the  firelight  fell, 
He  read  aloud  the  book  wherein  the  Master 

Had   writ  of  "  Little  Nell." 

Perhaps  't  was  boyish  fancy,  —  for  the  reader 

Was  youngest  of  them  all,  — 
But,  as  he  read,  from  clustering  pine  and  cedar 

A  silence  seemed  to  fall  ; 

The  fir-trees,  gathering  closer  in  the  shadows, 
Listened  in  every  spray, 

2*  C 


34  DICKENS    IN    CAMP. 

While   the    whole   camp,    with    "  Nell "  on    English 
meadows, 

Wandered  and  lost  their  way. 
» 

And  so  in  mountain  solitudes  —  o'  ertaken 

As  by  some  spell  divine  — 

Their   cares    dropped    from    them   like  the   needles 
shaken 

From  out  the  gusty  pine. 

Lost  is  that  camp,  and  wasted  all  its  fire  : 
And  he  who  wrought  that  spell  ?  — 

Ah,  towering  pine  and  stately  Kentish  spire, 
Ye  have  one  tale  to  tell ! 

Lost  is  that  camp  !  but  let  its  fragrant  story 
Blend  with  the  breath  that  thrills 


DICKENS    IN    CAMP.  35 

With  hop-vines'  incense  all  the  pensive  glory 
That  fills  the  Kentish  hills. 

And  on  that  grave  where  English  oak  and  holly 

And  laurel  wreaths  intwine, 
Deem  it  not  all  a  too  presumptuous  folly,  — 

This  spray  of  Western  pine  ! 

JULY,  1870. 


WHAT    THE    ENGINES    SAID. 


OPENING  OF  THE  PACIFIC  RAILROAD. 


was  it  the  Engines  said, 
Pilots  touching,  —  head  to  head 
Facing  on  the  single  track, 
Half  a  world  behind  each  back  ? 
This  is  what  the  Engines  said, 
Unreported  and  unread  ! 

With  a  prefatory  screech, 
In  a  florid  Western  speech, 
Said  the  Engine  from  the  WEST  : 
"  I  am  from   Sierra's  crest  ; 


WHAT   THE   ENGINES   SAID. 

And,  if  altitude  's  a  test, 
Why,  I  reckon,  it  's  confessed, 
That  I  've  done  my  level  best." 

Said  the  Engine  from  the  EAST :. 
"  They  who  work  best  talk  the  least. 
S'pose  you  whistle  down  your  brakes  ; 
What  you  've  done  is  no  great  shakes,  — 
Pretty  fair, —  but  let  our  meeting 
Be  a  different  kind  of  greeting. 
Let  these  folks  with  champagne  stuffing, 
Not  their  Engines,  do  the  puffing. 

"  Listen  !    Where  Atlantic  beats 
Shores  of  snow  and  summer  heats  ; 
Where  the  Indian  autumn  skies 
Paint  the  woods  with  wampum  dyes, 


38  WHAT   THE   ENGINES    SAID. 

I  have  chased  the  flying  sun, 
Seeing  all  he  looked  upon, 
Blessing  all  that  he  has  blest, 
Nursing  in  my  iron  breast 
All  his  vivifying  heat, 
All  his  clouds  about  my  crest ; 
And  before  my  flying  feet 
Every  shadow  must  retreat." 

Said  the  Western  Engine,  "  Phew ! " 

And  a  long  low  whistle  blew. 

"  Come  now,  really  that's  the  oddest 

Talk  for  one  so  very  modest,  — 

You  brag  of  your  East !      You  do  ? 

Why,  /  bring  the  East  to  you  ! 

All  the  Orient,  all  Cathay, 

Find  through  me  the  shortest  way. 


WHAT    THE    ENGINES    SAID.  39 

And  the  sun  you  follow  here 
Rises  in  my  hemisphere. 
Really,  —  if  one  must  be  rude, — 
Length,  my  friend,  ain't  longitude." 

Said  the  Union,  "  Don't  reflect,  or 
I  '11  run  over  some  Director." 
Said  the  Central,  "  I  'm  Pacific, 
But,  when  riled,  I  'm  quite  terrific. 
Yet  to-day  we  shall  not  quarrel, 
Just  to  show  these  folks  this  moral, 
How  two  Engines  —  in  their  vision  — 
Once  have  met  without  collision." 

That  is  what  the  Engines  said, 
Unreported  and  unread  ; 
Spoken  slightly  through  the  nose, 
With  a  whistle  at  the  close. 


"THE  RETURN   OF  BELISARIUS." 

MUD    FLAT,    i860. 

O  O  you  're  back  from  your  travels,  old  fellow, 

And  you  left  but  a  twelvemonth  ago  ; 
You've  hobnobbed  with  Louis  Napoleon, 

Eugenie,  and  kissed  the  Pope's  toe. 
By  Jove,  it  is  perfectly  stunning, 

Astounding,  —  and  all  that,  you  know  ; 
Yes,  things  are  about  as  you  left  them 

In  Mud  Flat  a  twelvemonth  ago. 

The  boys  !  —  They  're  all  right,  —  Oh  !  Dick  Ashley, 
He  's  buried  somewhere  in  the  snow  ; 


"THE    RETURN    OF    BEL1SARIUS.  4! 

He  was  lost  on  the  Summit,  last  winter, 
And  Bob  has  a  hard  row  to  hoe. 

You  knew  that  he  's  got  the  consumption  ? 
You  did  n't !     Well,  come,  that 's  a  go  ; 

I  certainly  wrote  you  at  Baden, — 
Dear  me !  that  was  six  months  ago. 

I  got  all  your  outlandish  letters, 

All  stamped  by  some  foreign  P.  O. 
I  handed  myself  to  Miss  Mary 

That  sketch  of  a  famous  chateau. 
Tom  Saunders  is  living  at  'Frisco,  — 

They  say  that  he  cuts  quite  a  show. 
You  did  n't  meet  Euchre-deck  Billy 

Anywhere  on  your  road  to  Cairo  ? 

So  you  thought  of  the  rusty  old  cabin, 
The  pines,  and  the  valley  below ; 


And  heard  the  North  Fork  of  the  Yuba, 
As  you  stood  on  the  banks  of  the  Po  ? 

'T  was  just  like  your  romance,  old  fellow  ; 
But  now  there  is  standing  a  row 

Of  stores  on  the  site  of  the  cabin 

That  you  lived  in  a  twelvemonth,  ago. 

But  it 's  jolly  to  see  you,  old  fellow,  — 

To  think  it 's  a  twelvemonth  ago  ! 
And  you  have  seen  Louis  Napoleon, 

And  look  like  a  Johnny  Crapaud. 
Come  in.     You  will  surely  see  Mary,  — 

You  know  we  are  married.     What,  no  ?  — 
O,  ay.     I  forgot  there  was  something 

Between  you  a  twelvemonth  ago. 


"TWENTY   YEARS." 

"D  EG  your  pardon,  old  fellow  !  I  think 

I  was  dreaming  just  now,  when  you  spoke, 
The  fact  is,  the  musical  clink 
Of  the  ice  on  your  wine-goblet's  brink 
A  chord  of  my  memory  woke. 

And  I  stood  in  the  pasture-field  where 
Twenty  summers  ago  I  had  stood  ; 
And  I  heard  in  that  sound,  I  declare, 
The  clinkings  of  bells  on  the  air, 
Of  the  cows  coming  home  from  the  wood. 


44  "  TWENTY   YEARS." 

Then  the  apple-blooms  shook  on  the  hill ; 
And  the  mullein-stalks  tilted  each  lance ; 
And  the  sun  behind  Rapalye's  mill 
Was  my  uttermost  West,  and  could  thrill 
Like  some  fanciful  land  of  romance. 

Then  my  friend  was  a  hero,  and  then 
My  girl  was  an  angel.     In  fine, 
I  drank  buttermilk  ;  for  at  ten 
Faith  asks  less  to  aid  her,  than  when 
At  thirty  we  doubt  over  wine. 

Ah  well,  it  does  seem  that  I  must 

Have  been  dreaming  just  now  when  you  spoke, 

Or  lost,  very  like,  in  the  dust 

Of  the  years  that  slow  fashioned  the  crust 

On  that  bottle  whose  seal  you  last  broke. 


"TWENTY  YEARS."  45 

Twenty  years  was  its  age,  did  you  say? 
Twenty  years  ?     Ah,  my  friend,  it  is  true  ! 
All  the  dreams  that  have  flown  since  that  day, 
All  the  hopes  in  that  time  passed  away, 
Old  friend,  I  've  been  drinking  with  you ! 


FATE. 

"  r  I  ^HE  sky  is  clouded,  the  rocks  are  bare  ; 

The  spray  of  the  tempest  is  white  in  air ; 
The  winds  are  out  with  the  waves  at  play, 
And  I  shall  not  tempt  the  sea  to-day. 

"  The  trail  is  narrow,  the  wood  is  dim, 
The  panther  clings  to  the  arching  limb  ; 
And  the  lion's  whelps  are  abroad  at  play, 
And  I  shall  not  join  in  the  chase  to-day." 

But  the  ship  sailed  safely  over  the  sea, 
And  the  hunters  came  from  the  chase  in  glee; 
And  the  town  that  was  builded  upon  a  rock 
Was  swallowed  up  in  the  earthquake  shock. 


IN   DIALECT. 


"JIM." 

AY  there  !     P'r'aps 

Some  on  you  chaps 
Might  know  Jim  Wild? 
Well,  —  no  offence  : 
Thar  ain't  no  sense 
In  gittin'  riled  1 

Jim  was  my  chum 

Up  on  the  Bar : 
That 's  why  I  come 

Down  from  up  yar, 
Lookin'  for  Jim. 
Thank  ye,  sir!      You 
3 


50  "JIM." 

Ain't  of  that  crew,  — 
Blest  if  you  are ! 

Money?  —  Not  much: 
That  ain't  my  kind : 

I  ain't  no  such. 

Rum  ?  —  I  don't  mind, 

Seein'  it 's  you. 

Well,  this  yer  Jim, 
Did  you  know  him  ?  — 
Jess  'bout  your  size  ; 
Same  kind  of  eyes  ?  — 
Well,  that  is  strange  : 
Why,  it's  two  year 
Since  he  came  here, 
Sick,  for  a  change. 


"JIM."  5* 

Well,  here  's  to  us  : 

Eh? 
The  h you  say ! 

Dead  ?  — 
That  little  cuss? 

What  makes  you  star,— 
You  over  thar? 
Can't  a  man  drop 
's  glass  in  yer  shop 
But  you  must  rar'  ? 

It  would  n't  take 

D much  to  break 

You  and  your  bar. 

Dead ! 
Poor  — little— Jim! 


52  "JIM." 

—  Why,  thar  was  me, 
Jones,  and  Bob  Lee, 
Harry  and  Ben, — 
No-account  men : 
Then  to  take  him ! 

Well,  thar-     Good  by,- 
No  more,  sir,  —  I  — 

Eh? 

What 's  that  you  say  ?  — 
Why,  dern  it !  —  sho  !  — 
No  ?  Yes  !  By  Jo  ! 

Sold! 

Sold!     Why,  you  limb, 
You  ornery, 

Derned  old 
Long-legged  Jim  ! 


CHIQUITA. 

T)EAUTIFUL!  Sir,  you  may  say  so.  Thar 
is  n't  her  match  in  the  county. 

Is  thar,  old  gal,  —  Chiquita,  my  darling,  my  beauty  ? 

Feel  of  that  neck,  sir,  —  thar  's  velvet !  Whoa ! 
Steady,  —  ah,  will  you,  you  vixen  ! 

Whoa !  I  say.  Jack,  trot  her  out ;  let  the  gentle- 
man look  at  her  paces. 

Morgan  !  —  She  ain't  nothin'  else,  and  I  Ve  got 
the  papers  to  prove  it. 

Sired  by  Chippewa  Chief,  and  twelve  hundred  dol- 

«• 

lars  won't  buy  her. 


54  CHIQUITA. 

Briggs   of  Tuolumne   owned   her.      Did   you   know 

Briggs  of  Tuolumne  ?  — 
Busted    hisself  in  White    Pine,    and    blew   out    his 

brains  down  in  'Frisco  ? 

Hed  n't     no    savey  —  hed    Briggs.      Thar,    Jack ! 

that  '11  do,  —  quit  that  foolin'  ! 
Nothin'   to  what   she   kin  do,  when   she 's   got   her 

work  cut  out  before  her. 
Hosses    is    hosses,    you    know,    and    likewise,    too, 

jockeys  is  jockeys ; 
And  't  ain't  ev'ry  man  as  can  ride  as  knows  what 

a  hoss  has  got  in  him. 

Know  the  old    ford    on    the    Fork,  that  nearly  got 

Flanigan's  leaders  ? 
Nasty   in   daylight,   you   bet,   and   a   mighty  rough 

ford  in  low  water! 


CHIQU1TA.  55 

Well,   it    ain't    six   weeks    ago    that    me    and    the 

Jedge  and  his  nevey 
Struck  for  that  ford  in  the  night,  in  the  rain,  and 

the  water  all  round  us  ; 

Up    to   our  flanks    in   the    gulch,  and    Rattlesnake 

Creek  just  a  bilin', 
Not   a  plank   left   in   the   dam,  and   nary  a  bridge 

on  the  river. 
I  had  the  gray,  and   the   Jedge  had   his   roan,  and 

his  nevey,  Chiquita ; 
And   after   us   trundled  the  rocks  jest  loosed  from 

the  top  of  the  canon. 

Lickity,  lickity,  switch,  we   came   to   the   ford,  and 

Chiquita 
Buckled    right    down    to    her   work,    and    afore    I 

could  yell  to  her  rider, 


56  CHIQUITA. 

Took   water   jest   at   the   ford,  and    there  was   the 

Jedge  and  me  standing, 
And    twelve    hundred    dollars    of   hoss-flesh    afloat, 

and  a  driftin'  to  thunder ! 

Would   ye  b'lieve  it?  that  night  that  hoss,  that  ar' 

filly,  Chiquita, 
Walked  herself  into   her   stall,  and  stood  there,  all 

quiet  and  dripping: 
Clean   as  a  beaver  or   rat,  with   nary  a   buckle  of 

harness, 
Just  as  she   swam    the    Fork,  —  that   hoss,  that  ar' 

filly,  Chiquita. 

That 's  what  I  call  a  hoss !   and  —     What  did  you 

say  ?  —  O,  the  nevey  ? 
Drownded,    I    reckon,  —  leastways,    he    never    kem 

back  to  deny  it. 


CHIQUITA.  57 

Ye  see  the  derned  fool  had  no  seat,  —  ye  could  n't 

have  made  him  a  rider ; 
And  then,  ye  know,  boys  will  be  boys,  and  hosses 

—  well,  hosses  is  hosses! 


DOW'S   FLAT. 
1856. 

T^VOW'S  FLAT.     That's  its  name. 

And  I  reckon  that  you 
Are  a  stranger  ?     The  same  ? 

Well,  I  thought  it  was  true, — 
For   thar   is  n't  a   man   on   the  river  as  can't  spot 
the  place  at  first  view. 

It  was  called  after  Dow, — 

Which  the  same  was  an  ass,  — 
And  as  to  the  how 

Thet  the  thing  kem  to  pass, — 
Jest  tie  up  your  hoss   to   that   buckeye*,  and  sit  ye 
down  here  in  the  grass  : 


DOW'S    FLAT.  59 

You  see  this  'yer  Dow 

Hed  the  worst  kind  of  luck  ; 
He  slipped  up  somehow 

On  each  thing  thet  he  struck. 
Why,  ef  he  'd  a  straddled  thet  fence-rail  the  derned 
thing  'ed  get  up  and  buck. 

He  mined  on  the  bar 

Till  he  could  n't  pay  rates ; 
He  was  smashed  by  a  car 

When  he  tunnelled  with  Bates ; 
And   right  on  the  top  of  his  trouble  kem   his  wife 
and  five  kids  from  the  States. 

It  was  rough,  —  mighty  rough  ; 

But  the  boys  they  stood  by, 
And  they  brought  him  the  stuff 

For  a  house,  on  the  sly  ; 


6O  DOW'S    FLAT. 

And   the   old  woman,  —  well,  she  did  washing,  and 
took  on  when  no  one  was  nigh. 

But  this  yer  luck  of  Dow's 

Was  so  powerful  mean 
That  the  spring  near  his  house 
Dried  right  up  on  the  green  ; 

And   he    sunk   forty  feet  down  for  water,  .but    nary 
a  drop  to  be  seen. 

Then  the  bar  petered  out, 

And  the  boys  would  n't  stay ; 
And  the  chills  got  about, 
And  his  wife  fell  away ; 

But   Dow,  in  his  well,  kept  a  peggin'  in  his  usual 
ridikilous  way. 

One  day,  —  it  was  June,  — 
And  a  year  ago,  jest,  — 


DOW'S    FLAT.  6l 

This  Dow  kem  at  noon 

To  his  work  like  the  rest, 

With  a    shovel    and   pick    on    his    shoulder,  and  a 
derringer  hid  in  his  breast. 

He  goes  to  the  well, 

And  he  stands  on  the  brink, 
And  stops  for  a  spell 

Jest  to  listen  and  think  : 

For  the   sun  in  his  eyes,  (jest  like  this,  sir!)  you 
see,  kinder  made  the  cuss  blink. 

His  two  ragged  gals 

In  the  gulch  were  at  play, 
And  a  gownd  that  was  Sal's 
Kinder  flapped  on  a  bay  : 

Not   much    for  a  man  to  be  leavin',  but   his  all,  — 
as  I  Ve  heer'd  the  folks  say. 


62  DOW'S    FLAT. 

And  —   That  's  a  peart  hoss 

Thet  you  've  got,  —  ain't  it  now  ? 
What  might  be  her  cost  ? 

Eh?    Oh!  — Well,  then,  Dow  — 
Let 's  see,  —  well,  that  forty-foot  grave  was  n't   his, 
sir,  that  day,  anyhow. 

For  a  blow  of  his  pick 

Sorter  caved  in  the  side, 
And  he  looked  and  turned  sick, 

Then  he  trembled  and  cried. 
For  you  see  the  dern  cuss  had  struck — "Water?"  — 

Beg  your  parding,  young  man,  there  you  lied! 

• 

It  was  gold,  —  in  the  quartz, 

And  it  ran  all  alike  ; 
And  I  reckon  five  oughts 

Was  the  worth  of  that  strike ; 


DOW'S   FLAT.  63 

And  that  house  with  the  coopilow  's  his'n,  —  which 
the  same  is  n't  bad  for  a  Pike. 

Thet  's  why  it  's  Dow's  Flat ; 

And  the  thing  of  it  is 
That  he  kinder  got  that 

Through  sheer  contrariness: 

For  't  was  water  the  derned  cuss  was  seekin',  and 
his  luck  made  him  certain  to  miss. 

Thet 's  so.     Thar  's  your  way 

To  the  left  of  yon  tree  ; 
But  —  a  —  look  h'yur,  say  ? 

Won't  you  come  up  to  tea  ? 

No  ?   Well,  then  the  next  time  you  're  passin' ;  and 
ask  after  Dow,  —  and  thet  's  me. 


IN  THE  TUNNEL. 

TVD  n't  know  Flynn,  — 
Flynn  of  Virginia,  — 
Long  as  he  's  been  'yar  • 
Look  'ee  here,  stranger, 
Whar  hev  you  been? 

Here  in  this  tunnel 
He  was  my  pardner, 

That  same  Tom  Flynn,  — 
Working  together, 
In  wind  and  weather, 

Day  out  and  in. 


IN    THE  TUNNEL. 

Did  n't  know  Flynn  ! 
Well,  that  is  queer; 

Why,  it 's  a  sin 

To  think  of  Tom  Flynn,  — 
Tom  with  his  cheer, 
Tom  without  fear,  — 
Stranger,  look  'yar! 

Thar  in  the  drift, 

Back  to  the  wall, 
He  held  the  timbers 

Ready  to  fall; 

Then  in  the  darkness 
I  heard  him  call : 

"  Run  for  your  life,  Jake ! 

Run  for  your  wife's  sake  ! 

Don't  wait  for  me." 


66  IN    THE    TUNNEL. 

And  that  was  all 
Heard  in  the  din, 
Heard  of  Tom  Flynn,— 
Flynn  of  Virginia. 

That  's  all  about 
Flynn  of  Virginia. 

That  lets  me  out. 

Here  in  the  damp, — 

Out  of  the  sun,  — 
That  'ar  denied  lamp 

Makes  my  eyes  run. 

Well,  there,  —  I  'm  done ! 

But,  sir,  when  you  '11 
Hear  the  next  fool 
Asking  of  Flynn,  — 


IN    THE   TUNNEL.  6? 

Flynn  of  Virginia,  — 

Just  you  chip  in, 

Say  you  knew  Flynn ; 
Say  that  you  've  been  'yar. 


"  CICELY." 

ALKALI     STATION. 

/CICELY  says   you're   a  poet;   maybe;   I  ain't 

much  on  rhyme : 
I  reckon  you  'd   give  me  a  hundred,  and   beat  me 

every  time. 
Poetry !  —  that 's   the  way  some   chaps   puts  up  an 

idee, 
But    I    takes    mine   "straight    without    sugar,"   and 

that 's  what  's  the  matter  with  me. 

Poetry! — just   look   round   you,  —  alkali,  rock,  and 

sage; 
Sage-brush,    rock,    and     alkali ;    ain't    it    a    pretty 

page! 


"  CICELY."  69 

Sun    in   the   east   at    mornin',  sun    in   the  west  at 

night, 
And  the  shadow  of  this  'yer  station  the  on'y  thing 

moves  in  sight. 

Poetry  !  —  Well   now  —    Polly !    Polly,  run  to   your 

mam  ; 
Run  right  away,  my  pooty  !     By  by !     Ain't  she  a 

lamb  ? 
Poetry !  —  that  reminds  me  o'  suthin'  right  in  that 

suit: 
Jest  shet  that  door  thar,  will  yer  ?  —  for  Cicely's  ears 

is  cute. 

Ye  noticed  Polly,  —  the  baby  ?     A  month  afore  she 

was  born, 
Cicely  —  my    old    woman  —  was    moody-like    and 

forlorn  ; 


Out  of  her  head  and   crazy,  and  talked  of  flowers 

and  trees ; 
Family  man   yourself,   sir?      Well,   you   know  what 

a  woman  he's. 

Narvous    she    was,    and    restless,  —  said    that    she 

"  could  n't  stay." 
Stay,  —  and    the    nearest   woman    seventeen    miles 

away. 
But  I  fixed  it  up  with  the  doctor,  and  he  said  he 

would  be  on  hand, 
And  I  kinder  stuck   by  the  shanty,  and   fenced   in 

that  bit  o'  land. 

One  night,  —  the  tenth  of  October,  —  I  woke  with 

a  chill  and  fright, 
For   the    door  it    was    standing    open,    and    Cicely 

warn't  in  sight, 


But  a   note  was    pinned    on    the    blanket,  which  it 

said  that  she  "  could  n't  stay," 
But   had    gone   to  visit    her    neighbor,  —  seventeen 

miles  away ! 

When   and   how  she   stampeded,  I   did  n't  wait   for 

to  see, 
For  out  in  the  road,  next  minit,  I  started  as  wild 

as  she  ; 
Running  first  this  way  and  that  way,  like  a  hound 

that  is  off  the  scent, 
For   there  warn't   no   track   in   the  darkness  to  tell 

me  the  way  she  went. 

I  've  had  some  mighty  mean  moments  afore  I  kem 

to  this  spot,  — 
Lost  on  the    Plains    in   '50,  drownded   almost,  and 

shot ; 


72 

But   out   on   this    alkali    desert,  a  hunting  a  crazy 

wife, 
Was    ra'ly  as    on-satis-factory  as  anything  in   my 

life. 

"Cicely!  Cicely!  Cicely!"  I  called,  and  I  held  my 

breath, 
And   "Cicely!"  came   from  the  canyon,  —  and   all 

was  as  still  as  death. 
And    "Cicely!    Cicely!    Cicely!"    came    from    the 

rocks  below, 
And  jest   but  a  whisper  of  "  Cicely ! "  down  from 

them  peaks  of  snow. 

I  ain't  what  you  call  religious,  —  but   I  jest  looked 

up  to  the  sky, 
And  —  this  'yer  's  to  what  I  'm  coming,  and  maybe 

ye  think  I  lie : 


"  CICELY.  73 

But   up  away  to    the  east'ard,  yaller   and    big   and 

far, 
I  saw  of  a   suddent    rising  the    singlerist  kind  of 

star. 

Big  and  yaller  and  dancing,  it  seemed  to  beckon 

to  me : 
Yaller  arid   big   and   dancing,  such   as    you    never 

see  : 
Big  and   yaller  and  dancing,  —  I  never  saw  such  a 

star, 
And  I  thought  of  them  sharps  in  the  Bible,  and  I 

went  for  it  then  and  thar. 

Over    the    brush     and    bowlders   I    stumbled    and 

pushed  ahead : 
Keeping  the  star  afore  me,  I  went  wharever  it  led 


74  "  CICELY. 

It  might  hev  been  for  an  hour,  when  suddent  and 

peart  and  nigh, 
Out  of  the   yearth   afore    me    thar  riz  up  a  baby's 

cry. 

Listen !    thar 's    the    same    music ;    but    her   lungs 

they  are  stronger  now 
Than  the  day  I  packed  her  and  her  mother,  —  I  'm 

derned  if  I  jest  know  how. 
But   the  doctor  kem  the  next  minit,  and  the  joke 

o'  the  whole  thing  is 
That   Cis   never    knew  what    happened    from    that 

very  night  to  this! 

But   Cicely    says    you  're  a    poet,   and   maybe   you 

might,  some  day, 
Jest  sling  her  a  rhyme  'bout  a  baby  that  was  born 

in  a  curious  way. 


75 

And  see  what  she  says ;  and,  old  fellow,  when  you 

speak  of  the  star,  don't  tell 
As  how  't  was    the  doctor's    lantern,  —  for   maybe 

't  won't  sound  so  well. 


PENELOPE. 
SIMPSON'S  BAR,  1858. 

O  O  you  Ve  kem  'yer  agen, 

And  one  answer  won't  do? 
Well,  of  all  the  derned  men 

That  I  've  struck,  it  is  you. 

O  Sal !   'yer  >s    tnat    derned    fool    from    Simpson's, 
cavortin'  round  'yer  in  the  dew. 

Kem  in,  ef  you  will. 

Thar,  —  quit !     Take  a  cheer. 
Not  that;  you  can't  fill 

Them  theer  cushings  this  year,  — 
For  that  cheer  was  my  old  man's,  Joe  Simpson,  and 
they  don't  make  such  men  about  'yer. 


PENELOPE.  77 

He  was  tall,  was  my  Jack, 
And  as  strong  as  a  tree. 
Thar's  his  gun  on  the  rack, — 

Jest  you  heft  it,  and  see. 

And  you  come  a  courtin'  his  widder.    Lord  !  where 
can  that  critter,  Sal,  be! 


You  'd  fill  my  Jack's  place  ? 

And  a  man  of  your  size,  — 
With  no  baird  to  his  face, 

Nor  a  snap  to  his  eyes, — 

And  nary  —     Sho  !    thar  !    I  was    foolin',  —  I  was, 
Joe,  for  sartain,  —  don't  rise. 

Sit  down.     Law  !  why,  sho  ! 
I  'm  as  weak  as  a  gal, 


?S  PENELOPE. 

Sal !     Don't  you  go,  Joe, 

Or  I  '11  faint,  — sure,  I  shall. 

Sit  down,  —  anywheer,  where  you  like,  Joe,  —  in  that 
cheer,  if  you  choose, — Lord,  where 's  Sal ! 


PLAIN  LANGUAGE  FROM  TRUTHFUL 
JAMES. 

TABLE   MOUNTAIN,    iS/O. 

\T  THIGH  I  wish  to  remark,—- 

And  my  language  is  plain, — 
That  for  ways  that  are  dark 

And  for  tricks  that  are  vain, 
The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar. 

Which  the  same  I  would  rise  to  explain. 

Ah  Sin  was  his  name  ; 
And  I  shall  not  deny 


8O   PLAIN  LANGUAGE  FROM  TRUTHFUL  JAMES. 

In  regard  to  the  same 

What  that  name  might  imply, 
But  his  smile  it  was  pensive  and  childlike, 

As  I  frequent  remarked  to  Bill  Nye. 

It  was  August  the  third  ; 

And  quite  soft  was  the  skies; 
Which  it  might  be  inferred 

That  Ah  Sin  was  likewise ; 
Yet  he  played  it  that  day  upon  William 

And  me  in  a  way  I  despise. 

Which  we  had  a  small  game, 

And  Ah  Sin  took  a  hand  : 
It  was  Euchre.     The  same 

He  did  not  understand  ; 
But  he  smiled  as  he  sat  by  the  table, 

With  the  smile  that  was  childlike  and  bland. 


PLAIN  LANGUAGE  FROM  TRUTHFUL  JAMES.    8 1 

Yet  the  cards  they  were  stocked 

In  a  way  that  I  grieve, 
And  my  feelings  were  shocked 

At  the  state  of  Nye's  sleeve  : 
Which  was  stuffed  full  of  aces  and  bowers, 

And  the  same  with  intent  to  deceive. 

But  the  hands  that  were  played 

By  that  heathen  Chinee, 
And  the  points  that  he  made, 

Were  quite  frightful  to  see, — 
Till  at  last  he  put  down  a  right  bower, 

Which  the  same  Nye  had  dealt  unto  me. 

Then  I  looked  up  at  Nye, 

And  he  gazed  upon  me  ; 
And  he  rose  with  a  sigh, 

And  said,  "  Can  this  be  ? 

4*  F 


82   PLAIN  LANGUAGE  FROM  TRUTHFUL  JAMES. 

We  are  ruined  by  Chinese  cheap  labor,"  — 
And  he  went  for  that  heathen  Chinee. 

In  the  scene  that  ensued 

I  did  not  take  a  hand, 
But  the  floor  it  was  strewed 

Like  the  leaves  on  the  strand 
With  the  cards  that  Ah  Sin  had  been  hiding, 

In  the  game  "  he  did  not  understand." 

In  his  sleeves,  which  were  long, 

He  had  twenty-four  packs,  — 
Which  was  coming  it  strong, 

Yet  I  state  but  the. facts  ; 
And  we  found  on  his  nails,  which  were  taper, 

What  is  frequent  in  tapers,  —  that  's  wax. 

Which  is  why  I  remark, 
And  my  language  is  plain, 


PLAIN  LANGUAGE  FROM  TRUTHFUL  JAMES.   8j 

That  for  ways  that  are  dark, 

And  for  tricks  that  are  vain, 
The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar,  — 

Which  the  same  I  am  free  to  maintain. 


THE   SOCIETY    UPON  THE   STANISLAUS. 

T    RESIDE  at  Table  Mountain,  and  my  name  is 

Truthful  James  ; 

I  am  not  up  to  small  deceit,  or  any  sinful  games  ; 
And    I  '11    tell    in   simple    language    what    I    know 

about  the  row 
That  broke  up  our  society  upon  the  Stanislow. 

But  first  I  would  remark,  that  it  is  not  a  proper  plan 
For  any  scientific  gent  to  whale  his  fellow-man, 
And,   if  a   member  don't   agree   with   his   peculiar 

whim, 
To  lay  for  that  same  member  for  to  "put  a  head" 

on  him. 


THE   SOCIETY    UPON    THE    STANISLAUS.  85 

Now   nothing  could   be  finer  or  more  beautiful   to 

see 
Than    the    first    six    months'    proceedings    of    that 

same  society, 
Till    Brown    of  Calaveras    brought    a    lot    of   fossil 

bones 
That  he  found  within  a  tunnel  near  the  tenement 

of  Jones. 

Then  Brown  he  read  a  paper,  and  he  reconstructed 
there, 

From  those  same  bones,  an  animal  that  was  ex- 
tremely rare  ; 

And  Jones  then  asked  the  Chair  for  a  suspension 
of  the  rules, 

Till  he  could  prove  that  those  same  bones  was 
one  of  his  lost  mules. 


86  THE    SOCIETY    UPON    THE    STANISLAUS. 

Then  Brown  he  smiled  a  bitter  smile,  and  said  he 
was  at  fault. 

It  seemed  he  had  been  trespassing  on  Jones's  fam- 
ily vault : 

He  was  a  most  sarcastic  man,  this  quiet  Mr. 
Brown, 

And  on  several  occasions  he  had  cleaned  out  the 
town. 

Now  I  hold  it  is  not  decent  for  a  scientific  gent 

To  say  another  is  an  ass,  —  at  least,  to  all  intent ; 

Nor  should  the  individual  who  happens  to  be 
meant 

Reply  by  heaving  rocks  at  him  to  any  great  ex- 
tent. 

Then  Abner  Dean  of  Angel's  raised  a  point  of  or- 
der —  when 


THE  SOCIETY  UPON  THE  STANISLAUS.      8/ 

A   chunk   of  old   red    sandstone    took   him  in   the 

abdomen, 
And  he  smiled  a  kind  of  sickly  smile,  and  curled 

up  on  the  floor, 
And  the  subsequent  proceedings  interested  him  no 

more. 

For,  in   less  time  than   I   write   it,  every  member 

did  engage 
In   a  warfare    with   the    remnants   of   a   palaeozoic 

age; 
And   the   way   they   heaved   those   fossils    in   their 

anger  was  a  sin, 
Till  the  skull  of  an  old   mammoth  caved   the  head 

of  Thompson  in. 

And   this   is  all  I    have   to   say  of  these   improper 
games, 


88  THE   SOCIETY   UPON   THE   STANISLAUS. 

For   I   live   at   Table   Mountain,   and   my  name    is 

Truthful  James  ; 
And    I  Ve   told   in   simple   language   what    I   know 

about  the  row 
That  broke  up  our  society  upon  the  Stanislow. 


POEMS 


FROM    1860    TO    1868. 


JOHN    BURNS    OF    GETTYSBURG. 

T  T  AVE  you  heard  the  story  that  gossips  tell 
Of  Burns  of  Gettysburg  ?  —  No  ?  Ah,  well 
Brief  is  the  glory  that  hero  earns, 
Briefer  the  story  of  poor  John  Burns : 
He  was  the  fellow  who  won  renown, — 
The  only  man  who  did  n't  back  down 
When  the  rebels  rode  through  his  native  town: 
But  held  his  own  in  the  fight  next  day, 
When  all  his  townsfolk  ran  away. 
That  was  in  July,  sixty-three, 
The  very  day  that  General  Lee, 
Flower  of  Southern  chivalry, 
Baffled  and  beaten,  backward  reeled 
From  a  stubborn  Meade  and  a  barren  field. 


92  JOHN    BURNS    OF    GETTYSBURG. 

I  might  tell  how,  but  the  day  before, 

John  Burns  stood  at  his  cottage  door, 

Looking  down  the  village  street, 

Where,  in  the  shade  of  his  peaceful  vine, 

He  heard  the  low  of  his  gathered  kine, 

And  felt  their  breath  with  incense  sweet ; 

Or  I  might  say,  when  the  sunset  burned 

The  old  farm  gable,  he  thought  it  turned 

The  milk  that  fell,  in  a  babbling  flood 

Into  the  milk-pail,  red  as  blood ! 

Or  how  he  fancied  the  hum  of  bees 

Were  bullets  buzzing  among  the  trees. 

But  all  such  fanciful  thoughts  as  these 

Were  strange  to  a  practical  man  like  Burns, 

Who  minded  only  his  own  concerns, 

Troubled  no  more  by  fancies  fine 

Than  one  of  his  calm-eyed,  long-tailed  kine,  — 


JOHN    BURNS    OF    GETTYSBURG.  93 

Quite  old-fashioned  and  matter-of-fact, 
Slow  to  argue,  but  quick  to  act. 
That  was  the  reason,  as  some  folk  say, 
He  fought  so  well  on  that  terrible  day. 

And  it  was  terrible.     On  the  right 
Raged  for  hours  the  heady  fight, 
Thundered  the  battery's  double  bass, — 
Difficult  music  for  men  to  face ; 
While  on  the  left  —  where  now  the  graves 
Undulate  like  the  living  waves 
That  all  that  day  unceasing  swept 
Up  to  the  pits  the  rebels  kept  — 
Round  shot  ploughed  the  upland  glades, 
Sown  with  bullets,  reaped  with  blades  ; 
Shattered  fences  here  and  there 
Tossed  their  splinters  in  the  air  ; 


94  JOHN    BURNS    OF    GETTYSBURG. 

The  very  trees  were  stripped  and  bare ; 
The  barns  that  once  held  yellow  grain 
Were  heaped  with  harvests  of  the  slain ; 
The  cattle  bellowed  on  the  plain, 
The  turkeys  screamed  with  might  and  main, 
And  brooding  barn-fowl  left  their  rest 
With  strange  shells  bursting  in  each  nest. 

Just  where  the  tide  of  "battle  turns, 

Erect  and  lonely  stood  old  John  Burns. 

How  do  you  think  the  man  was  dressed  ? 

He  wore  an  ancient  long  buff  vest, 

Yellow  as  saffron,  —  but  his  best ; 

And,  buttoned  over  his  manly  breast, 

Was  a  bright  blue  coat,  with  a  rolling  collar, 

And  large  gilt  buttons,  —  size  of  a  dollar,  — 

With  tails  that  the  country-folk  called  "  swaller." 


JOHN    BURNS    OF    GETTYSBURG.  95 

He  wore  a  broad-brimmed,  bell-crowned  hat, 
White  as  the  locks  on  which  it  sat. 
Never  had  such  a  sight  been  seen 
For  forty  years  on  the  village  green, 
Since  old  john  Burns  was  a  country  beau, 
And  went  to  the  "  quiltings  "  long  ago. 

Close  at  his  elbows  all  that  day, 

Veterans  of  the  Peninsula, 

Sunburnt  and  bearded,  charged  away ; 

And  striplings,  downy  of  lip  and  chin,  — 

Clerks  that  the  Home  Guard  mustered  in,  — 

Glanced,  as  they  passed,  at  the  hat  he  wore, 

Then  at  the  rifle  his  right  hand  bore  ; 

And  hailed  him,  from  out  their  youthful  lore, 

With  scraps  of  a  slangy  repertoire: 

"  How  are  you,  White  Hat !  "  "  Put  her  through  I " 


96  JOHN    BURNS    OF    GETTYSBURG. 

"  Your  head  's  level,"  and  "  Bully  for  you  !  " 
Called  him  "  Daddy,"  —  begged  he  'd  disclose 
The  name  of  the  tailor  who  made  his  clothes, 
And  what  was  the  value  he  set  on  those  ; 
While  Burns,  unmindful  of  jeer  and  scoff, 
Stood  there  picking  the  rebels  off,  — 
With  his  long  brown  rifle,  and  bell-crown  hat, 
And  the  swallow-tails  they  were  laughing  at. 

JT  was  but  a  moment,  for  that  respect 
Which  clothes  all  courage  their  voices  checked  ; 
And  something  the  wildest  could  understand 
Spake  in  the  old  man's  strong  right  hand  ; 
And  his  corded  throat,  and  the  lurking  frown 
Of  his  eyebrows  under  his  old  bell-crown  ; 
Until,  as  they  gazed,  there  crept  an  awe 
Through  the  ranks  in  whispers,  and  some  men  saw, 


JOHN    BURNS   OF    GETTYSBURG.  97 

In  the  antique  vestments  and  long  white  hair, 
The  Past  of  the  Nation  in  battle  there  ; 
And  some  of  the  soldiers  since  declare 
That  the  gleam  of  his  old  white  hat  afar, 
Like  the  crested  plume  of  the  brave  Navarre, 
That  day  was  their  oriflamme  of  war. 

So  raged  the  battle.     You  know  the  rest : 
How  the  rebels,  beaten  and  backward  pressedp 
Broke  at  the  final  charge,  and  ran. 
At  which  John  Burns  —  a  practical  man  — 
Shouldered  his  rifle,  unbent  his  brows, 
And  then  went  back  to  his  bees  and  cows. 

That  is  the  story  of  old  John  Burns  ; 

This  is  the  moral  the  reader  learns  : 

In  fighting  the  battle,  the  question  's  whether 

You  '11  show  a  hat  that 's  white,  or  a  feather  ! 

o 


THE  TALE  OF  A  PONY. 

"XT  AME  of  my  heroine,  simply  "  Rose  "  ; 

Surname,  tolerable  only  in  prose  ; 
Habitat,  Paris,  —  that  is  where 
She  resided  for  change  of  air  ; 
jEtat  xx ;  complexion  fair, 
Rich,  good-looking,  and  debonnaire, 
Smarter  than  Jersey-lightning  —  There  ! 
That 's  her  photograph,  done  with  care. 

In  Paris,  whatever  they  do  besides, 
EVERY  LADY  IN  FULL  DRESS  RIDES  ! 
Moire  antiqties  you  never  meet 
Sweeping  the  filth  of  a  dirty  street  ; 


THE   TALE   OF   A   PONY.  99 

But  every  woman's  claim  to  ton 

Depends  upon 

The  team  she  drives,  whether  phaeton, 
Landau,  or  britzka.     Hence  it  's  plain 
That  Rose,  who  was  of  her  toilet  vain, 
Should  have  a  team  that  ought  to  be 
Equal  to  any  in  all  Paris  ! 

"  Bring  forth  the  horse  !  "  —  The  commissaire 
Bowed,  and  brought  Miss  Rose  a  pair 
Leading  an  equipage  rich  and  rare : 

"Why  doth  that  lovely  lady  stare?" 

• 

Why  ?     The  tail  of  the  off  gray  mare 

Is  bobbed,  —  by  all  that 's  good  and  fair ! 

Like  the  shaving-brushes  that  soldiers  wear, 

Scarcely  showing  as  much  back-hair 

As  Tarn   O'Shanter's  "Meg," — and  there 

Lrrd  knows  she  'd  little  enough  to  spare 


IOO  THE   TALE   OF   A   PONY. 

That  stare  and  frown  the  Frenchman  knew, 

But  did,  —  as  well-bred  Frenchmen  do  : 

Raised  his  shoulders  above  his  crown, 

Joined  his  thumbs,  with  the  fingers  down, 

And  said,  "  Ah  Heaven  ! "  —  then,  "  Mademoiselle, 

Delay  one  minute,  and  all  is  well ! " 

He  went ;  returned ;  by  what  good  chance 

These  things  are  managed  so  well  in  France 

I  cannot  say,  —  but  he  made  the  sale, 

And  the  bob-tailed  mare  had  a  flowing  tail. 

All  that  is  false  in  this  world  below 
Betrays  itself  in  a  love  of  show ; 
Indignant  Nature  hides  her  lash 
In  the  purple-black  of  a  dyed  mustache ; 
The  shallowest  fop  will  trip  in  French, 
The  would-be  critic  will  misquote  Trench ; 


THE   TALE    OF    A    Pt>XY.  IOI 

In  short,  you  're  always -sure  to  xJettect' 

A  sham  in  the  things  folks  most  affect ; 

Bean-pods  are  noisiest  when  dry, 

And  you  always  wink  with  your  weakest  eye : 

And  that 's  the  reason  the  old  gray  mare 

Forever  had  her  tail  in  the  air, 

With  flourishes  beyond  compare, 

Though  every  whisk 

Incurred  the  risk 

Of  leaving  that  sensitive  region  bare,  — 
She  did  some  things  that  you  could  n't  but  feel 
She  would  n't  have  done  had  her  tail  been  real. 

Champs  Elyse"es  :   Time,  past  five ; 
There  go  the  carriages,  —  look  alive  ! 
Everything  that  man  can  drive, 
Or  his  inventive  skill  contrive, — 


IO2  THE  ;TALE   OF    A    PONY. 

'Yankee '  buggy  'or 'English  "  chay  "  ; 
Dog-cart,  droschky,  and  smart  coupe, 
A  cttsobligeante  quite  bulky, 
(French  idea  of  a  Yankee  sulky ;) 
Band  in  the  distance,  playing  a  march, 
Footmen  standing  stiff  as  starch ; 
Savans,  lorettes,  deputies,  Arch- 
Bishops,  and  there  together  range 
5<?2/.r-lieutenants  and  c^-gardes,  (strange 
Way  these  soldier-chaps  make  change,) 
Mixed  with  black-eyed  Polish  dames, 
With  unpronounceable  awful  names  ; 
Laces  tremble,  and  ribbons  flout, 
Coachmen  wrangle  and  gendarmes  shout, 
Bless  us !   what  is  the  row  about  ? 
Ah !   here  comes  Rosey's  new  turn-out ! 


THE   TALE   OF    A    PONY.  IO3 

Smart !    You  bet  your  life  't  was  that ! 

Nifty !    (short  for  magnificat) 

Mulberry  panels,  —  heraldic  spread,  — 

Ebony  wheels  picked  out  with  red, 

And  two  gray  mares  that  were  thoroughbred  ; 

No  wonder  that  every  dandy's  head 

Was  turned  by  the  turn-out,  —  and  't  was  said 

That  Caskowhisky  (friend  of  the  Czar), 

A  very  good  whip  (as  Russians  are), 

Was  tied  to  Rosey's  triumphal  car, 

Entranced,  the  reader  will  understand, 

By  "ribbons"  that  graced  her  head  and  hand. 

Alas  !   the  hour  you  think  would  crown 
Your  highest  wishes  should  let  you  down ! 
Or  Fate  should  turn,  by  your  own  mischance, 
Your  victor's  car  to  an  ambulance  ; 


IO4  THE   TALE   OF   A   PONY. 

From  cloudless  heavens  her  lightnings  glance, 

(And  these  things  happen,  even  in  France  ;) 

And  so  Miss  Rose,  as  she  trotted  by, — 

The  cynosure  of  every  eye, — 

Saw  to  her  horror  the  off  mare  shy,  — 

Flourish  her  tail  so  exceeding  high 

That,  disregarding  the  closest  tie, 

And  without  giving  a  reason  why, 

She  flung  that  tail  so  free  and  frisky 

Off  in  the  face  of  Caskowhisky ! 

Excuses,  blushes,  smiles  :  in  fine, 
End  of  the  pony's  tail,  and  mine! 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  PADRE  JUNIPERO. 


/T^SHIS  is  the  tale  that  the  Chronicle 

Tells  of  the  wonderful  miracle 
Wrought  by  the  pious  Padre  Serro, 
The  very  reverend  Junipero. 


The  Heathen  stood  on  his  ancient  mound, 
Looking  over  the  desert  bound 
Into  the  distant,  hazy  south, 
Over  the  dusty  and  broad  champaign 
Where,  with  many  a  gaping  mouth, 
And  fissure  cracked  by  the  fervid  drouth, 
5* 


IO6  THE    MIRACLE    OF   PADRE  JCJNIPERO. 

For  seven  months  had  the  wasted  plain 

Known  no  moisture  of  dew  or  rain. 

The  wells  were  empty  and  choked  with  sand  ; 

The  rivers  had -perished  from  the  land; 

Only  the  sea  fogs,  to  and  fro, 

Slipped  like  ghosts  of  the  streams  below. 

Deep  in  its  bed  lay  the  river's  bones, 

Bleaching  in  pebbles  and  milk-white  stones, 

And  tracked  o'er  the  desert  faint  and  far, 

Its  ribs  shone  bright  on  each  sandy  bar. 

Thus  they  stood  as  the  sun  went  down 
Over  the  foot-hills  bare  and  brown  ; 
Thus  they  looked  to  the  South,  wherefrom 
The  pale-face  medicine-man  should  come. 
Not  in  anger,  or  in  strife, 
But  to  bring  —  so  ran  the  tale  — 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  PADRE  JUNIPERO.      1O/ 

The  welcome  springs  of  eternal  life, 
The  living  waters  that  should  not  fail. 

Said  one,   "  He  will  come  like  Manitou, 
Unseen,  unheard,  in  the  falling  dew." 
Said  another,    "  He  will  come  full  soon 
Out  of  the  round-faced  watery  moon." 
And  another  said,   "  He  is  here ! "  and  lo,  — 
Faltering,  staggering,  feeble  and  slow, — 
Out  from  the  desert's  blinding  heat 
The  Padre  dropped  at  the  heathen's  feet. 
They  stood  and  gazed  for  a  little  space 
Down  on  his  pallid  and  careworn  face, 
And  a  smile  of  scorn  went  round  the  band 
As  they  touched  alternate  with  foot  and  hand 
This  mortal  waif,  that  the  outer  space 
Of  dim  mysterious  sky  and  sand 


IO8      THE  MIRACLE  OF  PADRE  JUNIPERO. 

Flung  with  so  little  of  Christian  grace 
Down  on  their  barren,  sterile  strand. 

Said  one  to  him  :   "  It  seems  thy  god 
Is  a  very  pitiful  kind  of  god ; 
He  could  not  shield  thine  aching  eyes 
From  the  blowing  desert  sands  that  rise, 
Nor  turn  aside  from  thy  old  gray  head 
The  glittering  blade  that  is  brandished 
By  the  sun  he  set  in-  the  heavens  high; 
He  could  not  moisten  thy  lips  when  dry  ; 
The  desert  fire  is  in  thy  brain  ; 
Thy  limbs  are  racked  with  the  fever-pain : 
If  this  be  the  grace  he  showeth   thee 
Who  art  his  servant,  what  may  we, 
Strange  to  his  ways  and  his  commands, 
Seek  at  his  unforgiving  hands  ? " 


THE    MIRACLE    OF    PADRE   JUNII'ERO.  IC 

*  Drink  but  this  cup,"  said  the  Padre,  straight, 
*And  thou  shalt  know  whose  mercy  bore 
These  aching  limbs  to  your  heathen  door, 
And  purged  my  soul  of  its  gross  estate. 
Drink  in  His  name,  and  thou  shalt  see 
The  hidden  depths  of  this  mystery. 
Drink  ! "    and  he  held  the  cup.     One  blow 

From  the  heathen  dashed  to  the  ground  below 
/ 

The  sacred  cup  that  the  Padre  bore  ; 

And  the  thirsty  soil  drank  the  precious  store 

Of  sacramental  and  holy  wine, 

That  emblem  and  consecrated  sign 

And  blessed  symbol  of  blood  divine. 

Then,  says  the  legend,  (and  they  who  doubt 

The  same  as  heretics  be  accurst,) 

From  the  dry  and  feverish  soil  leaped  out 


IIO      THE  MIRACLE  OF  PADRE  JUNIPERO- 

A  living  fountain  ;    a  well-spring  burst 

Over  the  dusty  and  broad  champaign, 

Over  the  sandy  and  sterile  plain, 

Till  the  granite  ribs  and  the  milk-white  stones 

That  lay  in  the  valley  —  the  scattered  bones  — 

Moved  in  the  river  and  lived  again  ! 

Such  was  the  wonderful  miracle 
Wrought  by  the  cup  of  wine  that  fell 
From  the  hands  of  the  pious  Padre  Serro, 
The  very  reverend  Junipero. 


AN  ARCTIC  VISION, 

"\  T  7  HERE  the  short-legged  Esquimaux 

Waddle  in  the  ice  and  snow, 
And  the  playful  polar  bear 
Nips  the  hunter  unaware ; 
Where  by  day  they  track  the  ermine, 
And  by  night  another  vermin,  — 
Segment  of  the  frigid  zone, 
Where  the  temperature  alone 
Warms  on  St.  Elias'  cone  ; 
Polar  dock,  where  Nature  slips 
From  the  ways  her  icy  ships  ; 
Land  of  fox  and  deer  and  sable, 


112  AN    ARCTIC    VISION. 

Shore  end  of  our  western  cable,  — 
Let  the  news  that  flying  goes 
Thrill  through  all  your  Arctic  floes, 
And  reverberate  the  boast 
From  the  cliffs  of  Beechey's  coast, 
Till  the  tidings,  circling  round 
Every  bay  of  Norton  Sound, 
Throw  the  vocal  tide-wave  back 
To  the  isles  of  Kodiac. 
Let  the  stately  polar  bears 
Waltz  around  the  pole  in  pairs, 
And  the  walrus,  in  his  glee, 
Bare  his  tusk  of  ivory  ; 
While  the  bold  sea  unicorn 
Calmly  takes  an  extra  horn  ; 
All  ye  polar  skies,  reveal  your 
Very  rarest  of  parhelia  ; 


AN   ARCTIC    VISION. 

Trip  it,  all  ye  merry  dancers, 
In  the  airiest  of  lancers  ; 
Slide,  ye  solemn  glaciers,  slide, 
One  inch  farther  to  the  tide, 
Nor  in  rash  precipitation 
Upset  Tyndall's  calculation. 
Know  you  not  what  fate  awaits  you. 
Or  to  whom  the  future  mates  you  ? 
All  ye  icebergs  make  salaam, — 
You  belong  to  Uncle  Sam ! 

On  the  spot  where  Eugene  Sue 
Led  his  wretched  Wandering  Jew, 
Stands  a  form  whose  features  strike 
Russ  and  Esquimaux  alike. 
He  it  is  whom  Skalds  of  old 
In  their  Runic  rhymes  foretold  ; 


114  AN    ARCTIC    VISION. 

Lean  of  flank  and  lank  of  jaw, 
See  the  real  Northern  Thor  ! 
See  the  awful  Yankee  leering 
Just  across  the  Straits  of  Behring; 
On  the  drifted  snow,  too  plain, 
Sinks  his  fresh  tobacco  stain 
Just  beside  the  deep  inden- 
Tation  of  his  Number  10. 

Leaning  on  his  icy  hammer 
Stands  the  hero  of  this  drama, 
And  above  the  wild-duck's  clamor, 
In  his  own  peculiar  grammar, 
With  its  linguistic  disguises, 
Lo,  the  Arctic  prologue  rises  : 
"  Wa'll,  I  reckon  't  ain't  so  bad, 
Seein'  ez  't  was  all  they  had ; 


AN    ARCTIC    VISION.  115 

True,  the  Springs  are  rather  late 

And  early  Falls  predominate ; 

But  the  ice  crop  's  pretty  sure, 

And  the  air  is  kind  o'  pure ; 

T  aint  so  very  mean  a  trade, 

When  the  land  is  all  surveyed. 

There  's  a  right  smart  chance  for  fur-chase 

All  along  this  recent  purchase, 

And,  unless  the  stories  fail, 

Every  fish  from  cod  to  whale ; 

Rocks,  too  ;  mebbe  quartz  ;  let  's  see,  — 

'T  would  be  strange  if  there  should  be,  — 

Seems  I  Ve  heerd  such  stones  told  ; 

Eh  !  —  why,  bless  us,  —  yes,  it 's  gold  !  " 

While  the  blows  are  falling  thick 
From  his  California  pick, 


Il6  AN    ARCTIC    VISION. 

You  may  recognize  the  Thor 
Of  the  vision  that  I  saw,  — 
Freed  from  legendary  glamour, 
See  the  real  magician's  hammer. 


TO   THE   PLIOCENE   SKULL. 

A    GEOLOGICAL    ADDRESS. 

"  O  PEAK,  O  man,  less  recent !     Fragmentary  fossil ! 

Primal  pioneer  of  pliocene  formation, 
Hid  in  lowest  drifts  below  the  earliest  stratum 
Of  volcanic  tufa ! 

"  Older  than  the  beasts,  the  oldest  Palaeotherium  ; 
Older  than  the  trees,  the  oldest  Cryptogami ; 
Older  than  the  hills,  those  infantile  eruptions 
Of  earth's  epidermis  ! 

"  Eo  —  Mio  —  Plio  —  whatsoe'er  the  "  cene  "  was 
That    those    vacant    sockets    filled    with    awe    and 
wonder,  — 


Il8  TO    THE    PLIOCENE    SKULL. 

Whether  shores  Devonian  or  Silurian  beaches, — 
Tell  us  thy  strange  story ! 

V 

"  Or  has  the  professor  slightly  antedated 
By  some  thousand  years  thy  advent  on  this  planet, 
Giving  thee  an  air  that  's  somewhat  better  fitted 
For  cold-blooded  creatures  ? 

"  Wert  thou  true  spectator  of  that  mighty  forest 
When  above  thy  head  the  stately  Sigillaria 
Reared  its  columned  trunks  in  that  remote  and  distant 
Carboniferous  epoch  ? 

"Tell  us  of  that  scene,  —  the  dim  and  watery  woodland 
Songless,  silent,  hushed,  with  never  bird  or  insect 
Veiled    with    spreading    fronds    and    screened    with 
tall  club-mosses, 

Lycopodiacea,  — 


TO   THE   PLIOCENE    SKULL.  I  IQ 

"  When  beside  thee  walked  the  solemn  Plesiosaurus, 
And  around  thee  crept  the  festive  Ichthyosaurus, 
While  from  time  to  time  above  thee  flew  and  circled 
Cheerful  Pterodactyls. 

"  Tell  us  of  thy  food,  —  those  half-marine  refections, 
Crinoids  on  the  shell  and  Brachipods  au  naturcl, — • 
Cuttle-fish  to  which  the  pieuvre  of  Victor  Hugo 
Seems  a  periwinkle. 

"Speak,  thou  awful  vestige  of  the  Earth's  creation, — 
Solitary  fragment  of  remains  organic ! 
Tell  the  wondrous  secret  of  thy  past  existence,  — 
Speak  !    thou  oldest  primate  !  " 

Even  as  I  gazed,  a  thrill  of  the  maxilla, 

And  a  lateral  movement  of  the  condyloid  process, 


I2O  TO   THE    PLIOCENE    SKULL. 

With  post-pliocene  sounds  of  healthy  mastication, 
Ground  the  teeth  together. 

And,  from  that  imperfect  dental  exhibition, 
Stained  with  expressed  juices  of  the  weed  Nicotian, 
Came  these  hollow  accents,  blent  with  softer  murmurs 
Of  expectoration  ; 

"  Which  my  name  is  Bowers,  and  my  crust  was  busted 
Falling  down  a  shaft  in   Calaveras  County, 
But  I  'd  take  it  kindly  if  you  'd  send  the  pieces 
Home  to  old  Missouri ! " 


THE   BALLAD   OF  THE   EMEU. 

/^~\  SAY,  have  you  seen  at  the  Willows  so  green,  - 

So  charming  and  rurally  true,  — • 
A  singular  bird,  with  a  manner  absurd, 
Which  they  call  the  Australian  Emeu  ? 

Have  you 
Ever  seen  this  Australian  Emeu? 

It  trots  all  around  with  its  head  on  the  ground, 
Or  erects  it  quite  out  of  your  view  ; 

And  the  ladies  all  cry,  when  its  figure  they  spy, 
O,   what  a  sweet  pretty  Emeu ! 

Oh!   do 

Just  look  at  that  lovely  Emeu! 
6 


122  THE    BALLAD    OF    THE   EMEU. 

One  day  to  this  spot,  when  the  weather  was  hot, 

Came  Matilda  Hortense  Fortescue  ; 
And  beside  her  there  came  a  youth  of  high  name,  • — 

Augustus  Florell  Montague: 

The  two 

Both  loved  that  wild,  foreign  Emeu. 

With  two  loaves  of  bread  then  they  fed  it,  instead 

Of  the  flesh  of  the  white  cockatoo, 
Which  once  was  its  food  in  that  wild  neighborhood 

Where  ranges  the  sweet  Kangaroo; 

That  too 

Is  game  for  the  famous  Emeu! 

Old  saws  and  gimlets  but  its  appetite  whets 

Like  the  world-famous  bark  of  Peru ; 
There  's  nothing  so  hard  that  the  bird  will  discard, 


THE   BALLAD    OF   THE   EMEU.  123 

And  nothing  its  taste  will  eschew, 

That  you 
Can  give  that  long-legged  Emeu  ! 

The  time  slipped  away  in  this  innocent  play, 
When  up  jumped  the  bold  Montague : 

"  Where  's  that  specimen  pin  that  I  gayly  did  win 
In  raffle,  and  gave  unto  you, 

Fortescue  ? " 
No  word  spoke  the  guilty  Emeu! 

"  Quick !  tell  me  his  name  whom  thou  gavest  that  same, 
Ere  these  hands  in  thy  blood  I  imbrue  ! " 

uNay,  dearest,"  she  cried,  as  she  clung  to  his  side, 
"  I  'm  innocent  as  that  Emeu  !  " 

"  Adieu ! " 
He  replied,  "Miss  M.  H.  Fortescue!" 


124  THE    BALLAD    OF    THE   EMEU. 

Down  she  dropped  at  his  feet,  all  as  white  as  a  sheet, 

As  wildly  he  fled  from  her  view ; 
He  thought 't  was  her  sin,  —  for  he  knew  not  the  pin 

Had  been  gobbled  up  by  the  Emeu; 

All  through 

The  voracity  of  that  Emeu ! 


THE    AGED    STRANGER. 

AN   INCIDENT   OF   THE   WAR. 

*  T    WAS  with  Grant  —  "  the  stranger  said  ; 

Said  the  farmer,  "  Say  no  more, 
But  rest  thee  here  at  my  cottage  porch, 
For  thy  feet  are  weary  and  sore." 

"  I  was  with  Grant  —  "  the  stranger  said  ; 

Said  the  farmer,  "Nay,  no  more, — 
I  prithee  sit  at  my  frugal  board, 

And  eat  of  my  humble  store. 

*  How  fares  my  boy,  —  my  soldier  boy, 

Of  the  old  Ninth  Army  Corps? 


126  .         THE   AGED   STRANGER. 

I  warrant  he  bore  him  gallantly 

In  the  smoke  and  the  battle's  roar ! " 

"  I  know  him  not,"  said  the  aged  man, 

"  And,  as  I  remarked  before, 
I  was  with  Grant  — "  "  Nay,  nay,  I  know," 

Said  the  farmer,  "  say  no  more ; 

"  He  fell  in  battle,  —  I  see,  alas  ! 

Thou  'dst  smooth  these  tidings  o'er,  — 
Nay  :  speak  the  truth,  whatever  it  be, 

Though  it  rend  my  bosom's  core: 

"How  fell  he,  —  with  his  face  to  the  foe, 

Upholding  the  flag  he  bore? 
O,  say  not  that  my  boy  disgraced 

The  uniform  that  he  wore  ! " 


THE    AGED    STRANGER.  I2/ 

"  I  cannot  tell,"  said  the  aged  man, 
"  And  should  have  remarked,  before, 

That  I  was  with  Grant,  —  in  Illinois,  — 
Some  three  years  before  the  war." 

Then  the  farmer  spake  him  never  a  word, 

But  beat  with  his  fist  full  sore 
That  aged  man,  who  had  worked  for  Grant 

Some  three  years  before  the  war. 


"HOW  ARE  YOU,   SANITARY?" 

"TAOWN  the  picket-guarded  lane, 

Rolled  the  comfort-laden  wain, 

Cheered  by  shouts  that  shook  the  plain, 
Soldier-like  and  merry : 

Phrases  such  as  camps  may  teach, 

Sabre-cuts  of  Saxon  speech, 

Such  as  "Bully!"     "Them  's  the  peach! 
"  Wade  in,  Sanitary  !  " 

Right  and  left  the  caissons  drew, 
As  the  car  went  lumbering  through, 
Quick  succeeding  in  review 
Squadrons  military; 


"HOW    ARE    YOU,   SANITARY?"  I2Q 

Sunburnt  men  with  beards  like  frieze, 
Smooth-faced  boys,  and  cries  like  these, — 
"  U.  S.  San.  Com."     "  That 's  the  cheese ! " 
"  Pass  in,  Sanitary  ! " 

In  such  cheer  it  struggled  on 
Till  the  battle  front  was  won, 
Then  the  car,  its  journey  done, 

Lo !  was  stationary  ; 
And  where  bullets  whistling  fly, 
Came  the  sadder,  fainter  cry, 
"Help  us, 'brothers,  ere  we  die, — 

Save  us,  Sanitary  !  " 

Such  the  work.  The  phantom  flies, 
Wrapped  in  battle  clouds  that  rise  ; 
But  the  brave  —  whose  dying  eyes, 

Veiled  and  visionary, 
6* 


I3O  "HOW   ARE    YOU,    SANITARY?" 

See  the  jasper  gates  swung  wide, 
See  the  parted  throng  outside — - 
Hears  the  voice  to  those  who  ride  • 
"  Pass  in,  Sanitary  ! " 


THE  REVEILLE. 

T_T  ARK  !    I  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands, 

And  of  arme'd  men  the  hum  ; 
Lo !  a  nation's  hosts  have  gathered 
Round  the  quick  alarming  drum,  — 
Saying,  "  Come, 
Freemen,  come  ! 

Ere    your    heritage     be    wasted,"    said    the    quick 
alarming  drum. 

"  Let  me  of  my  heart  take  counsel : 

War  is  not  of  Life  the  sum  ; 
Who  shall  stay  and  reap  the  harvest 

When  the  autumn  days  shall  come  ? " 


132  THE    REVEILLE. 

But  the  drum 
Echoed,  "  Come  ! 

Death    shall    reap    the    braver    harvest,"    said    the 
solemn-sounding  drum. 

"  But  when  won  the  coming  battle, 
What  of  profit  springs  therefrom  ? 
What  if  conquest,  subjugation, 
Even  greater  ills  become  ?  " 
But  the  drum 
Answered,  "  Come  ! 

You  must  do  the  sum  to  prove  it,"  said  the  Yan- 
kee-answering drum. 

"What  if,  'mid  the  cannons'  thunder, 

Whistling  shot  and  bursting  bomb, 
When  my  brothers  fall  around  me, 

Should  my  heart  grow  cold  and  numb  ? " 


THE   REVEILLE.  133 

But  the  drum 
Answered  "  Come  ! 

Better   there   in    death    united,  than    in   life  a  rec- 
reant, —  come  ! " 

Thus  they  answered,  —  hoping,  fearing, 

Some  in  faith,  and  doubting  some, 
Till  a  trumpet-voice  proclaiming, 
Said,  "  My  chosen  people,  come  ! " 
Then  the  drum, 
Lo !  was  dumb, 

For   the   great  heart   of  the   nation,  throbbing,  an- 
swered, "  Lord,  we  come  !  " 


OUR    PRIVILEGE. 

XT  OT  ours,  where  battle  smoke  upcurls, 

And  battle  dews  lie  wet, 
To  meet  the  charge  that  treason  hurls 
By  sword  and  bayonet. 

Not  ours  to  guide  the  fatal  scythe 

The  fleshless  reaper  wields  ; 
The  harvest  moon  looks  calmly  down 

Upon  our  peaceful  fields. 

The  long  grass  dimples  on  the  hill, 
The  pines  sing  by  the  sea, 


OUR   PRIVILEGE.  135 

And  Plenty,  from  her  golden  horn, 
Is  pouring  far  and  free. 

O  brothers  by  the  farther  sea, 

Think  still  our  faith  is  warm  ; 
The  same  bright  flag  above  us  waves 

That  swathed  our  baby  form. 

The  same  red  blood  that  dyes  your  fields 

Here  throbs  in  patriot  pride  ; 
The  blood  that  flowed  when  Lander  fell, 

And  Baker's  crimson  tide. 

And  thus  apart  our  hearts  keep  time 

With  every  pulse  ye  feel, 
And  Mercy's  ringing  gold  shall  chime 

With  Valor's  clashing  steel. 


RELIEVING  GUARD, 

T.    S.   K.       OBIIT    MARCH   4,    1864. 

/^AME  the  Relief.     "What,  Sentry,  ho! 

How  passed  the  night  through  thy  longwaki"# 
"  Cold,  cheerless,  dark,  —  as  may  befit 
The  hour  before  the  dawn  is  breaking." 

"  No  sight  ?  no  sound  ? "     "  No  ;  nothing  save 
The  plover  from  the  marshes  calling, 
And  in  yon  Western  sky,  about 
An  -hour  ago,  a  Star  was  falling." 

"A  star?     There's  nothing  strange  in  that." 
"  No,  nothing ;  but,  above  the  thicket, 
Somehow  it  seemed  to  me  that  God 
Somewhere  had  just  relieved  a  picket." 


PARODIES 


A   GEOLOGICAL    MADRIGAL. 

AFTER     HERRICK. 

T    HAVE  found  out  a  gift  for  my  fair ; 

I  know  where  the   fossils  abound, 
Where  the  footprints  of  Aves  declare 

The  birds  that  once  walked  on  the  ground ; 
O,  come,  and  —  in  technical  speech  — 

We  '11  walk  this  Devonian  shore, 
Or  on  some  Silurian  beach 

We  '11  wander,  my  love,  evermore. 

I  will  show  thee  the  sinuous  track 
By  the  slow-moving  annelid  made, 


I  .;.O  A    GEOLOGICAL    MADRIGAL. 

Or  the  Trilobite  that,  farther  back, 

In  the  old  Potsdam  sandstone  was  laic} 

Thou  shalt  see,  in  his  Jurassic  tomb, 
The  Plesiosaurus  embalmed ; 

In  his  Oolitic  prime  and  his  bloom,  — 
Iguanodon  safe  and  unharmed ! 

You  wished  —  I  remember  it  well, 

And  I  loved  you  the  more  for  that  wish  — 
For  a  perfect  cystedian  shell 

And  a  whole  holocephalic  fish. 
And  O,  if  Earth's  strata  contains 

In  its  lowest  Silurian  drift, 
Or  Palaeozoic  remains 

The  same,  —  't  is  your  lover's  free  gift ! 

Then  come,  love,  and  never  say  nay, 
But  calm  all  your  maidenly  fears, 


A    GEOLOGICAL    MADRIGAL. 

We  '11  note,  love,  in  one  summer's  day 
The  record  of  millions  of  years  ; 

And  though  the  Darwinian  plan 
Your  sensitive  feelings  may  shock, 

We  '11  find  the  beginning  of  man,  — 
Our  fossil  ancestors  in  rock ! 


THE  WILLOWS. 

AFTER    EDGAR    A.    POE. 

r  I  ^HE  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober, 

The  streets  they  were  dirty  and  drear  ; 
It  was  night  in  the  month  of  October, 

Of  my  most  immemorial  year; 
Like  the  skies  I  was  perfectly  sober, 

As  I  stopped  at  the  mansion  of  Shear, — 
At  the  Nightingale,  —  perfectly  sober, 

And  the  willowy  woodland,  down  here. 

Here,  once  in  an  alley  Titanic 

Of  Ten-pins,  —  I  roamed  with  my  soul,  — 
Of  Ten-pins,  —  with  Mary,  my  soul ; 


THE    WILLOWS.  143 

They  were  days  when  my  heart  was  volcanic, 

And  impelled  me  to  frequently  roll, 

And  made  me  resistlessly  roll, 
Till  my  ten-strikes  created  a  panic 

In  the  realms  of  the  Boreal  pole, 
Till  my  ten-strikes  created  a  panic 

With  the  monkey  atop  of  his  pole. 

I  repeat,  I  was  perfectly  sober, 

But  my  thoughts  they  were  palsied  and  sear, — 

My  thoughts  were  decidedly  queer ; 
For  I  knew  not  the  month  was  October, 

And  I  marked  not  the  night  of  the  year  ; 
I  forgot  that  sweet  morceau  of  Auber 

That  the  band  oft  performed  down  here, 
And  I  mixed  the  sweet  music  of  Auber 

With  the  Nightingale's  music  by  Shear. 


144  THE  WILLOWS. 

And  now  as  the  night  was  senescent, 
And  star-dials  pointed  to  morn, 
And  car-drivers  hinted  of  morn,  , 

At  the  end  of  the  path  a  liquescent 
And  bibulous  lustre  was  born ; 

'T  was  made  by  the  bar-keeper  present, 
Who  mixed  a  duplicate  horn, — • 

His  two  hands  describing  a  crescent 
Distinct  with  a  duplicate  horn. 

And  I  said  :  "  This  looks  perfectly  regal- 
For  it  's  warm,  and  I  know  I  feel  dry> 
I  am  confident  that  I  feel  dry ; 

We  have  come  past  the  emeu  and  eagle, 
And  watched  the  gay  monkey  on  high ; 

Let  us  drink  to  the  emeu  and  eagle, — 
To  the  swan  and  the  monkey  on  high  - 


THE   WILLOWS.  145 

To  the  eagle  and  monkey  on  high  ; 
For  this  barkeeper  will  not  inveigle, — 

Bully  boy  with  the  vitreous  eye ; 
He  surely  would  never  inveigle, — 

Sweet  youth  with  the  crystalline  eye." 

But  Mary,  uplifting  her  finger, 

Said,  "  Sadly  this  bar  I  mistrust,  — - 
I  fear  that  this  bar  does  not  trust. 

O  hasten  !  O  let  us  not  linger ! 

O  fly,  —  let  us  fly,  —  ere  we  must ! " 

In  terror  she  cried,  letting  sink  her 
Parasol  till  it  trailed  in  the  dust, — 

In  agony  sobbed,  letting  sink  her 
Parasol  till  it  trailed  in  the  dust,  — 
Till  it  sorrowfully  trailed  in  the  dust. 

7  J 


146  THE    WILLOWS. 

Then  I  pacified  Mary  and  kissed  her, 
And  tempted  her  into  the  room, 
And  conquered  her  scruples  and  gloom  ; 

And  we  passed  to  the  end  of  the  vista, 
But  were  stopped  by  the  warning  of  doom, 
By  some  words  that  were  warning  of  doom. 

And  I  said,  "What  is  written,  sweet  sister, 
At  the  opposite  end  of  the  room  ?  " 

She  sobbed,  as  she  answered,  "  All  liquors 
Must  be  paid  for  ere  leaving  the  room." 

Then  my  heart  it  grew  ashen  and  sober, 
As  the  streets  were  deserted  and  drear, — 
For  my  pockets  were  empty  and  drear ; 

And  I  cried,  "  It  was  surely  October, 
On  this  very  night  of  last  year, 
That  I  journeyed  —  I  journeyed  down  here, 


THE    WILLOWS.  147 

That  I  brought  a  fair  maiden  down  here, 

On  this  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year. 

Ah !  to  me  that  inscription  is  clear ; 
Well  I  know  now,  I  'm  perfectly  sober, 

Why  no  longer  they  credit  me  here,  — 
Well  I  know  now  that  music  of  Auber, 

And  this  Nightingale,  kept  by  one  Shear. 


NORTH    BEACH. 

» 

AFTER   SPENSER. 

T     O  !  where  the  castle  of  bold  Pfeiffer  throws 

Its  sullen  shadow  on  the  rolling  tide,  — 
No  more  the  home  where  joy  and  wealth  repose, 
But  now  where  wassailers  in  cells  abide ; 
See  yon  long  quay  that  stretches  far  and  wide, 
Well  known  to  citizens  as  wharf  of  Meiggs  ; 
There  each  sweet  Sabbath  walks  in  maiden  pride 
The  pensive  Margaret,  and  brave  Pat,  whose  legs 
Encased  in  broadcloth  oft  keep  time  with  Peg's. 

Here  cometh  oft  the  tender  nursery-maid, 
While  in  her  ear  her  love  his  tale  doth  pour ; 


NORTH  BEACH.  149 

Meantime  her  infant  doth  her  charge  evade, 

And  rambleth  sagely  on  the  sandy  shore, 

Till  the  sly  sea-crab,  low  in  ambush  laid, 

Seizelh  his  leg  and  biteth  him  full  sore. 

Ah  me !  what  sounds  the  shuddering  echoes  bore, 

When  his  small  treble  mixed  with  Ocean's  roar. 

Hard  by  there  stands  an  ancient  hostelrie, 

And  at  its  side  a  garden,  where  the  bear, 

The  stealthy  catamount,  and  coon  agree 

To  work  deceit  on  all  who  gather  there  ; 

And  when  Augusta  —  that  unconscious  fair  — 

With  nuts  and  apples  plieth  Bruin  free, 

Lo  !  the  green  parrot  claweth  her  back  hair, 

And  the  gray  monkey  grabbeth  fruits  that  she 

On  her  gay  bonnet  wears,  and  laugheth  loud  in  glee  ! 


THE    LOST    TAILS    OF    MILETUS. 

T  T  IGH    on   the   Thracian    hills,  half  hid  in  the 

billows  of  clover, 
Thyme,    and  the    asphodel    blooms,    and    lulled    by 

Pactolian  streamlet, 

She  of  Miletus  lay,  and  beside  her  an  aged  satyr 
Scratched    his    ear    with    his    hoof,    and    playfully 

mumbled  his  chestnuts. 

Vainly  the  Mcenid  and  the  Bassarid  gambolled 
about  her, 

The  free-eyed  Bacchante  sang,  and  Pan  —  the  re- 
nowned, the  accomplished  — 


THE    LOST   TAILS    OF    MILETUS.  151 

Executed    his    difficult    solo.     In    vain    were    their 

gambols  and  dances  : 
High  o'er  the  Thracian   hills  rose  the  voice  of  the 

shepherdess,  wailing. 

"  Ai !   for   the  fleecy  flocks,  —  the  meek-nosed,   the 

passionless  faces ; 
Ai !    for   the   tallow-scented,  the   straight-tailed,  the 

high-stepping  ; 
Ai!    for  the  timid  glance,  which  is  that  which  the 

rustic,  sagacious, 
Applies  to  him  who  loves  but  may  not  declare  his 

passion  ! " 

Her  then  Zeus  answered  slow:  "O  daughter  of 
song  and  sorrow, — 

Hapless  tender  of  sheep,  —  arise  from  thy  long  lam- 
entation ! 


152  THE    LOST    TAILS    OF    MILETUS. 

Since  thou  canst  not  trust  fate,  nor  behave  as  be- 
comes a  Greek  maiden, 

Look  and  behold  thy  sheep."  —  And  lo  !  they  re- 
turned to  her  tailless! 


THE   END. 


Cambridge  :  Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


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